Art of the Matter
by kohsamui
Summary: A LukaGillian story based on spoilers for S10 – so open at your peril! What are the chances of Luka & Gillian’s “wartime” romance surviving in the world outside Kisangani? Do they have anything else in common?


A Luka/Gillian story based on spoilers for S10 - so open at your peril! What are the chances of Luka & Gillian's "wartime" romance surviving in the world outside Kisangani? Do they have anything else in common?  
  
Luka and Gillian are characters owned by Warner Bros and not me. There is no Hopital de France in Kinshasa, though there is the General Hospital Sestre Milosrdnice in Zagreb, but it's unlikely there is a malaria specialist there.  
  
I am assuming that Luka is on the Red Cross plane with Gillian, leaving Kisangani and bound for Kinshasa. I wrote this before spoilers showing that Gillian returned to Chicago with Luka appeared, so I'm ignoring them.  
  
The contrast between the French hospital in Kinshasa and the facility at Kisangani wasn't as great as that between Matenda and Cook County General, but it was still a wide gulf. Instead of the rickety ceiling fans, an air conditioner purred away contentedly. There was even a television clamped to the wall, showing CNN and BBC World as well as myriad French stations. To Luka, however, the contrasts revolved mainly around the coolness and clean smell of the white sheets. His senses for all but the basics of life were still dull from the drugs as well as the shock of what had happened to him in the past week.  
  
The door opened.  
  
"Bonjour, Luka!"  
  
"Uh, Gillian," Luka grunted - which was about all his low energy allowed him to do, but he did manage a smile.  
  
"You're looking a lot better. Night staff say you had a good night - slept soundly most of the time."  
  
"Uh, yeah, I think so. You?"  
  
"Oh, the hotel isn't the Ritz but it's pretty good for here! You wouldn't believe I spent almost an hour in the shower when I got in last night. And again this morning. I've used up all the shampoo and shower gel and body lotion already!"  
  
By this time she had walked over to the side of his bed and perched herself on it.  
  
"Mmmm. I can smell how clean you are. Apples. Your hair smells of apples," he said.  
  
She stood up, picking up his chart. They'd agreed with the hospital authorities that Gillian would take care of him during the daytime, until he was well enough to be flown out of the Congo -within a day or two with a bit of luck. She took his blood pressure and temperature, drew blood for another battery of tests, changed the IV bags and checked the monitors. Luka didn't say much during this process, just the occasional groan or moan as he was moved around. He felt so incredibly tired. Just lifting his head to take a sip of water seemed to take every ounce of effort.  
  
"I've brought some newspapers. They're in French though. Interested? No? Too much effort - I know. Sorry. You don't mind if I sit here and read them?"  
  
He shook his head slightly. He just wanted to doze, anyway. But it felt good to have her stay in the room. It was comforting, and reminded him of being ill as a kid, when his mom would sit with him, doing her embroidery or knitting him or his brother a sweater.  
  
And he could still smell the apples in her hair.  
  
Occasionally, Gillian got up to go get a coffee and grab a cigarette in the bougainvillaea- and flametree-filled courtyard. She chatted with other nurses, both French and Congolese.  
  
"Good looking guy, your malaria doc," one of them said.  
  
"Yeah, wish we had docs like that here!" said another, glancing over in the direction of a podgy doctor with a big nose in the far corner of the courtyard.  
  
A bit of wheedling by a couple of the nurses got the information out of Gillian that she and Luka were - or had been, before the massacre at Matenda - an item.  
  
"No wonder you wanted to nurse him yourself," said Marianne.  
  
"Yeah - selfish woman!" added Gabrielle.  
  
"Sponge baths pretty frequent in your routine, then?" jousted Marianne.  
  
Gillian chuckled. Poor Luka. He was so ill that giving him a bed bath was nothing like washing a lover; she felt more like she was dealing with a sick child or a beloved elderly relative.  
  
The banter continued. A dour-faced female doc sitting with Dr Podgy Big Nose looked over and scowled - which set the nurses off even more.  
  
[Later that morning]  
  
"Hey Luka, I've been talking to the Red Cross people in Paris. Once you're mobile, they'll arrange for a flight to Paris and then on to Zagreb. They think you'll be better staying a hospital in Zagreb for a few days rather than going straight to your hometown. Apparently the General Hospital - er - Sestre Milos-something-or-other has someone who knows his stuff about tropical diseases."  
  
"Sestre Milosrdnice,' said Luka, the Croatian name rolling off his tongue. "That's where Gordana works - you remember, I told you she was the surgeon who arranged for the heart boy to come to Chicago. She's really great. I've got some other old med school friends there, too. That's good."  
  
Gillian smiled. Luka wasn't the world's greatest conversationalist at the best of times, but she was happy to hear him finally string more than a couple of sentences together for almost the first time since she and John Carter had found him, close to death, in Matenda. Those IV drugs for malaria were so simple, yet so effective. She could almost see the change in him by the hour.  
  
"You could give her a call, let her know you're coming."  
  
"No. You do it - I really cannot get into long conversations with anyone about this right now. Just tell her I have malaria, no more - I'll give you her cell number later."  
  
Hmmm, thought Gillian to herself, you don't often get into long discussions with anyone, mon ami! "Ah - forgot to ask. How did the call to your dad go last night?"  
  
Luka sank back into the pillows. He suddenly looked very tired again. "Oh. ok. He was happy to talk to me. Ecstatic, in fact. And emotional."  
  
"Understandable."  
  
"Yeah, but it got a bit much. He was laughing one minute, crying the next. My dad - he puts his heart on his shirt."  
  
"Wears his heart on his sleeve."  
  
As exhausted as he was, Luka managed a wink and a grin.  
  
"Luka!"  
  
Gillian paused, then said: "So you're not like him."  
  
"Er, no. More like my mother. He drove her crazy, too. But then, he's a artist... it's in his psyche!"  
  
[Later that afternoon]  
  
"Dr Kanku says you'll be fine to go on the Air France flight day after tomorrow, Luka. And I'll be coming with you as far as Paris, then a Red Cross nurse will accompany you on to Zagreb on another Air France flight. You've got a two-hour layover at Charles de Gaulle."  
  
"You go on to Montreal straight from there?"  
  
"Yeah - my layover is only 90 minutes. In the past I've sometimes taken a couple of days in Paris, but I'm already late back to Montreal, so not this time."  
  
"Shopping - just like a woman!"  
  
"Oooh, Paris is a bit too expensive for me, though I do like the flea markets. No, what I really like is to visit art galleries. Last time I found this great Picasso museum that I didn't know existed. I wanted to go to the d'Orsay - again - but there had been a terrific thunderstorm in Paris the night before and some of the big glass windows had broken, so they'd closed it to clean up.  
  
"You like Picasso?"  
  
"Love him! This museum was in a fantastic old house in the Marais district. Not just paintings but some of his pottery and sculpture too. I really loved the sculpture."  
  
"Oh, does it have the one with the bicycle seat in? I've seen pictures. I'd love to see it for real!"  
  
"Yes, it does! Ah - next year, if we're both here, we'll have to go there together on the way home!"  
  
They lapsed into a silence. Even in the coolness of the air-conditioning, the soporific atmosphere of a hot Congolese afternoon seeped into the room, and they both closed their eyes, Luka in his sick bed and Gillian in the chair in the corner, left to their own thoughts.  
  
A visit from Dr Kanku, the hospital's top malaria specialist, stirred the atmosphere. When the doctor had gone - pleased with Luka's progress - Gillian took a deep breath and decided it was time to take the bull by the horns.  
  
"Next year?"  
  
"Mmmmm? Sorry?'  
  
"You said 'next year'. You intending coming back?"  
  
"Yes. I think so."  
  
"Even after ... Matenda?"  
  
Luka looked slightly puzzled for a second. He had to admit that everything was still hazy to him. He hadn't really spent much time processing what had happened. Gun to the head. Church music. Screams. A crucifix. Praying. The incongruity of hearing Carter - but he was back in Chicago, wasn't he? - yelling "Luka! Luka! Open your eyes! Tell me where you are!" Gillian's hand in his. A bumpy car ride. Angelique's tender but firm care. Then these cool, white sheets.  
  
"Why not? Can't run away from these things." The enormity of what he'd said suddenly hit him like an express train. Wasn't that exactly what he'd been doing for the past 12 years? Since his family died. Since the first time he'd had a gun to his head at the fall of Vukovar?  
  
Keep talking. Don't think about it, he said to himself.  
  
"The people who live there can't run away... they need someone to help them," he continued. "What about you?"  
  
"Well, I've been going there every year for six years. No reason to stop now." Certainly not if iyou'rei going to be there, she added in her mind.  
  
Luka managed to look both mischievous and perplexed at the same time. "You might meet some man before then, fall madly in love and forget all about Kisangani."  
  
"I doubt it - none of the men at home I meet seem to be the settling-down kind."  
  
"Yeah, I know what you mean - well, the women, not men. Definitely not wife material. And they don't see me as much of a long-term prospect either."  
  
Gillian suddenly felt nervous. A shiver ran down her spine. If she'd met Luka in Chicago or Montreal, would they just have been a one-night stand? Wasn't that how it had started out at Kisangani, albeit a stand for a length of their time there? Until Luka had overstayed at Matenda the first time, and she had unexpectedly found herself frantic with worry. She'd tried to cover it up as frustration that he'd gone without asking if she'd like to accompany him, and frustration that he'd not bothered to try to let her know he'd be late back.  
  
"Uh, I, uh, need to go talk to a couple of the other nurses about tonight. They said they'd take me out somewhere."  
  
She came back about 20 minutes later. "Well, that's that sorted then."  
  
"What?" asked Luka.  
  
"Tonight's arrangements - Gabrielle, Marianne, and a couple of the other nurses are taking me to some club. They play good music, the beer's cold, though its not cheap for Kinshasa. Still half the price of Montreal, I expect."  
  
There was time to do a quick review of his charts and vitals before the night staff took over. When she'd finished, she kissed him on the forehead and stroked his hand.  
  
"Have a good night. Sleep well, mon cheri." She walked to the door.  
  
"Gillian?"  
  
"Mmmm?"  
  
"Don't go dancing to any Willie Nelson songs, will you."  
  
"Ha!" She waved her hand at him dismissively. But she didn't turn around, so he couldn't see the delighted smile that played across her lips and was reflected in her eyes. "Our song," she thought to herself. 


End file.
